Cusp of Possibility
by faorism
Summary: K/S. Jim must make do with the bursting movement and infinite chaos of urban activity of a city named Gyunid, which sings with an imprecise and wild trill at his feet.


_Title_: Cusp of Possibility  
_Series_: Star Trek (TOS).  
_Pairing and Genre_: Spock/Kirk. Introspection, Pre-slash.  
_Words/Progress_: 2000; Complete.

* * *

Lights, burning loud and with too many hues to distinguish one from the other, enclose an impossible clutter of buildings resting at bottom of a worn and tired valley. The churning illumination blares upward and outward as if to brighten the space beyond its sunken home; indeed, the light puckers from twin geological lips and spreads out for as far as it can reach. On Terra, energy of any kind is jealously used: light only extends to the borders of the city limits, if even that. But here, on Histamo VII—Trhridinthkil, the name given to this world by the gawky, humanoid natives—the thought of such gross control is mere fantasy: a vision of a time not yet their own.

If all goes well, just over a century's time might be enough for the clever Trhridines to reach First Contact level of progression, and when Starfleet finally meets with them, oh! what a world they will find! The Trhridines unique cyber-communication neatly places them in the Federation's line of interest; but judging by the entertainment output signals Uhura picked up, the music alone makes Trhridinthkil worthy of their attention. For the few minutes Jim allowed the frequency to play, a myriad of rustic yet tempered percussions soothed the ears of the crew. It was gorgeous, quick and wonky, and how he wished he could have let it play forever just to hear more of that wonderful melody!

For now, Jim must make do with the bursting movement and infinite chaos of urban activity of a city named Gyunid, which sings with an imprecise and wild trill at his feet. There, so far below where Jim sits at the edge of a tremendous gash in the landscape, are five and a quarter million lives—five and a quarter million stories, and five and a quarter million wonders he will never be privy to.

There is just so much to know, so much to explore within each of those five and a quarter million—how will a Trhridine carry himself during a conversation? Will he be as expressive as a human or as bitter as a Klingon? Will he move his hands in deliberate gestures or will the Trhridine only speak in questions? Then deeper and more personal items: what do the children dream of becoming when they grow up? What do the adults tell their children when a loved one dies? And how does a Trhridine love—like a Vulcan, perhaps, who does-not-doescannotcannever hold such a thing within them? So many unanswered questions—

Then again, there are four hundred thirteen persons currently sworn to the _Enterprise_, and although Jim knows each of their names, he will never know enough about them to ever be truly content. In the time he would have spent trying to engage a Trhridine into an interview, he could have asked xUgy-hxho-i from Engineering why Scotty calls him "Walter" during Gamma shifts but "Daniel" during Alpha; or maybe have Ensign Aion Tenna tell him about the first memory he has of wanting to serve aboard a starship; or even pose to Yeoman Yoko Ribbens any one of the multitude of questions he has no answers for. Why, he will never know enough about Bones or Spock, and they were his closest friends! If he has not had time over the course of nine months to properly acquaint himself with his own crewfolk, there would never be an exchange long enough for Jim to satisfy his curiosity at the largely unknown people bursting to life in the bottom of the natural, easy crevice at his feet—bursting with creativity, music snapping pleasantly at their ears—bursting with all the possibilities released by their technology. The simple power of transferring information within seconds and for everyone to access this information readily and oh! all the remarkable knowledge out there ready to be consumed on the trails of curious minds... the power of all of this is so great and precious. There's so much to learn—experience—so much room to grow and develop and become something just as truly magnificent as Trhridinthkil is now, just different in its strength. So much! So very, very much!

And—and yet...

_"Captain, from what Lieutenant Uhura and I have gathered from the public datawaves, there is great discontent concerning the state of Trhridine medicine due to many controversial advancements recently made in the field. Several prominent but vastly conflicting ideologies, each led by a different but equally agressive pharmaceutical monopoly, have influenced each facet of Trhridine civilization in the past three of this world's decades, the last five years of which have seen long but contained uprisings in areas less industrialized than Gyunid. There are signs this shall change, though, as in the last three months there have been riots in four capitals and sixteen commercial cities. I predict that this trend in violence is sure to only worsen."_

And yet... _(Jim doesn't need to ask for elaboration—he never needs to with his First. He simply offers a clipped nod before Spock continues in his report, and it is still without encouragement that Spock answers the question spiraling on Jim's tongue.)_

"Although they do not function like those once found on Sol III, there are atomic equivalents here, all but three owned by the monopolies I mentioned earlier. And due to the readiness of information and communication, rampant and often false propaganda has so overwhelmed the news datawaves that little else is discussed. The general population can no longer distinguish between fact and fiction."

Spock had said a number then. Yet again, Jim did not need to verbally goad the other man into giving him additional information: Jim's eyes closing (in his mind an echo of tender cacophony juxtaposed crudely with the ugly forecast) was enough for Spock to know what Jim needed. And Jim evenly accepted the news as a captain should, and he offered to accompany Spock and a small landing party to collect samples as an interested captain should, and he traveled to this precarious ledge to gather some deposits as a dutiful, interested captain should, but he stayed there knowing that his efforts were best used elsewhere. He stood—now he sits—at the edge of the world, staring at the shuddering lights of five and a quarter million moving ever forward and toward something dark and unfitting for... for any sentient being... for _any_ creature that has known the beauty of existence.

A familiar quell of revolution labors its way into Jim's chest: it's a sickly little jolt that calls for activity and fervor; a reminder that the Prime Directive is stupidly intangible—a wispy promise that he, a man and a captain, can literally supersede if he gave the word in a fit of wanton power... a misuse of authority. Something he has surrendered to in the past to protect the life/lives of one/all of his crew (blandly, Jim remembers that it is oftentimes a risk to his dear Spock that breaks his resolve). He has at his disposal all of known history outside of Trhridinthkil—he _knows_ what is likely to happen and yet, there is _nothing_ he can do.

And it really is nothing: 9.492%.

There is a likelihood of 9.492% that Trhridinthkil will meet First Contact standards in the next one hundred fifty years. Spock did not provide the breakdown of his prediction: Jim trusts him enough to know that every single drop of a percent has a singularly vital reason. Some Jim could guess for himself: he has seen and read about so many variations on this scenario _so many_ times: the end of the world can be bedfellows with famine; abandonment of technology; new religions that curtail that which brought destruction; progression of military prowess instead of in the sciences; ugly, horrific stalemate; a total nuclear holocaust... too many to list except inside Spock's mind alongside spirals of rigorous calculations. 9.492-fucking-percent.

Ha. Jim should be grateful that it is even that high. There were long-discovered worlds throughout the galaxy which were virtually destined to fail: less than 0.500% that the inhabitants would live through an occurring war: and Starfleet knew full well that without their intervention, the population _would_ destroy itself... and intervene Starfleet would/could/shall never do. Spock had had to declare a planet as in such a state twice in nine months... and yes, perhaps 9.492% may be far more than 0.500%, but it's not nearly enough for a civilization with music as that which comes from the clever minds and hearts of the Trhridines. They are musicians! great communicators! To think, the possible reason for their destruction is so... separate from what they could offer the universe... if only they could understand the _frivolity_ of ending so much potential for something completely unrelated!

It is this final thought that expands against all his capacities to suppress it. Jim's eyes never waver from their devoted examination, still peering over the ledge so high that if he were to topple over, unconsciousness would be upon him before the thud of his body against Gyrunid ground. He lets himself drift into the void of mental progression, letting himself absorb and compress and explore this one emotion. Even when the revealingly precise pattern of footfalls approaches him, he does not break his meditation; instead, Jim sighs a quiet "I don't understand" as a tall shadow drifts serenely to him, unhesitatingly sitting on the soft grass despite its owner's distaste for uncleanliness.

Jim compassionately steels himself for one of many responses that is sure to come. That the vagueness of the question does not permit Spock to properly align his projections as to what such the sentence means. That Spock does not approve of the admission of confusion. That even if Jim defines what he refers to (assuming he knows himself), Spock will proceed to _explain_ the logic of the harsh world they see before them. Jim prepares, reminding himself that there were some things that a Vulcan may not get right away—that he will have to be teacher once again to the not-so-unmovable force that is his First Officer. It's not the best of times but even Jim's need to morbidly indulge in the early mourning of a rich culture is not enough for him to spurn Spock's insatiable curiosity.

"Jim." Fragile warmth over his hand pulls Jim from his inner reverie, all his concerns quickly proving themselves to be utterly unfounded the second Jim glances at his companion. Instead of clinical and blank passivity, Jim sees... Spock. Spock, who at the moment hasn't a quirk in his lips or a devious rise in his brow; who hasn't anything (not over-bearing emotion, cool judgment, or even detached calculation) contorting his face—it is Spock and only Spock that Jim encounters.

And it is Spock and only Spock (and there really _is_ only ever Spock) who continues to keep his hand a hairsbreadth above Jim's as he expounds, "If you were to truly you understand this all, Captain—and, following your comprehension, find that there is logic and justice to it—I would find myself quite unwilling to consider you as my favored confidant." Becoming fast embarrassed (bashful? self-conscience?), Jim blinks steadily but dark (so-human, so-Vulcan, so-_Spock_) eyes never leave him. "Although I may be able to associate with he who absently accepts such an unsavory situation, I am immeasurably pleased that such a trait does not nor ever will exist within you."

Jim... he smiles then... and—"It... it's my _honor_, Mister Spock, to please you so"—and Jim thinks he sees a... no... no—but the hovering warmth still curls the expanse of his hand and... Jim surreptitiously pitches his knuckles until they whisper a touch against too-hot flesh. It is gone just as it is felt, and Jim is sure he imagines the rush of pure affection tumbling into his mind; but, in the end, it is more real a thing than the ever-climbing light ghosting skywards—_rustic, brittle percussions on its tongue_—the night he knows exists outside Gyunid's ethereal reach—_the churning of five and a quarter moist breaths in the air_—and a fledging, ever-bursting potential howling to be realized—_9.492%... 9.492%... 9.492%... 9.492%..._


End file.
